Lion stalked to the bench and seated himself at her side, trying to ignore the scent of violets curling around him.
And failing.
“Do select a song, Miss Fox,” he said curtly. “I haven’t all day.”
Addy could scarcely suppressher glee as Marchingham sat beside her on the piano bench. Fortunately, it was a sturdy pieceof furniture and large enough to hold the both of them. The Duke of Marchingham was not a small man. As he had folded his frame into the seat, she had been reminded of just how broad his shoulders were and how long his legs. His thigh pressed against her skirts, crowding her as his scent teased her senses. His proximity was a problem.
She knew that much already.
He settled his hands upon the keys, and Addy couldn’t help but admire them. They were so very masculine, his fingers long and elegant, one bearing a signet ring, and for a breathless moment, she wondered what those hands would feel like on her skin. Touching her. Caressing her.
Oh, what was wrong with her?
She didn’t evenlikethis man. Such thoughts were mad aberrations. She had known handsome gentlemen before. This one was no exception. She could remain unaffected. Her heart would return to a normal rhythm.
Addy turned toward him to find him studying her with his unnerving blue gaze. Her heart continued to beat wildly, and her breath caught in her lungs.
“Cantique de No?l?” he asked.
And for a moment, she didn’t know what he was saying.
Addy blinked, realizing he had spoken French. The song was familiar to her from her days at the Académie Clairemont. He was thinking about the song while she was mooning over his eyes and his hands and trying not to notice how beautifully formed his lips were.
“I know it,” she said, irritated with herself at how breathless her voice emerged.
It would never do for the Duke of Arse-ingham to know she found him handsome. Or to discover the effect his nearness had on her. She would be mortified.
He regarded her solemnly, making heat creep through her. “Shall we?”
“Of course.”
As one, they began to play. Addy would have expected them to be out of time, even slightly, and yet their fingers moved fluidly together, the melody effortlessly taking shape. And when it was time to sing, their voices blended melodiously. The duke’s baritone was lovely, melding with her own voice.
Singing with Marchingham was a joy.
The realization alarmed her, one of her fingers slipping on the key and playing the wrong note. Quickly, she recovered, trying not to glance in the duke’s direction. Trying to quell the heat creeping over her like the warmth of a July sun.
“La terre est libre et le ciel est ouvert,” they sang, and Addy couldn’t resist stealing a peek at him.
It was a colossal mistake on her part. Because he was also looking at her, and their gazes met and held. It was as if a dam within her suddenly broke, unleashing a rushing torrent of emotions she had been frantically holding at bay.
A fluttering sensation began low in her belly. By the time they reached the crescendo of the final refrain, she couldn’t look away.
“Noël! Noël! Chantons le Rédempteur!”
They played the final notes, and then the silence stretched, laden with what seemed a vast ocean of unspoken words. Addy’s heart beat fast and hard. She didn’t even like this man. Why was she so overcome with… Whatwasit that she was feeling?
Longing?
Good heavens. Surely not. Her gaze settled on the duke’s lips. They were well-formed and unsmiling, his philtrum delightfully pronounced. His jaw was rigid. A mad, foolish notion struck her. She should kiss him. Kiss the Duke of Marchingham. Kiss the forbidding sternness from his lips.
The air between them crackled with something potent and indefinable.
“That was…pleasant, Miss Fox,” he said with that unforgiving mouth.
His voice was still cold.
She blinked, forcing her stare from his mouth to his icy eyes. That was how he chose to describe what had passed between them during their duet?Pleasant?
